


Labyrinth

by DHW



Series: Sanctuary [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM, Mild Kink, dom!Giles, sub!Buffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-29 13:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: Dating is a minefield. And that’s just when you’re single, nevermind in a definitely-not-a-relationship with a man who might technically be your boss.If Buffy were a betting woman, she’d put money on Giles being jealous. But she isn’t, and he’s definitely not.Apparently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Summer_of_Giles 2017. 
> 
> The remaining chapters (3 and 4) will be uploaded on my next posting day, Saturday 15th July.

She was going to kill Giles. 

Buffy looked at her reflection in the dimly lit mirror. It frowned back at her as she washed her hands, a picture of perfectly executed make-up and barely restrained irritation. Giles was a dead man walking. She was going to kill him and then she was going to bury his body where no one would ever find it. 

The git. 

“I just want you to be happy, Buffy,” she mimicked nastily to her reflection, drying her hands upon a paper towel. “But you need to go out and meet people your own age. Date.”

And just how well was that going?

A grim sort of satisfaction filled her as she imagined staking her former Watcher, current boss (though only technically), and sometime not-quite-her-lover through the chest. It would possibly be more cathartic, she thought, if he would then disappear in a puff of dust, but given that he remained firmly in the land of the living, simple blood splatter would have to suffice.

With a growl of annoyance, she reached into her handbag and pulled from it a tube of violently red lipstick. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she applied a fresh layer, blending away the patches until her lips were a uniform red. Baring her teeth, she checked for transfer, before blotting away the excess with the corner of a tissue. 

Next, she checked her dress, smoothing out the creases, then her hair, playing for time. Tonight she was wearing a rather impressive little black number, because really, could you ever go wrong with a classic LBD? Buffy thought not. High necked and cap sleeved, it skimmed over her curves, fitted but not tight, falling to her mid thigh in a swish of silk. Her legs were bare, and upon her feet were a pair of pointed stiletto heels, fire engine red to match her handbag. Long blonde hair, the ends curled to painstaking perfection, cascaded over her shoulders in shiny waves.

She looked fantastic, even if she did say so herself. Pity, then, that it was entirely wasted upon her dinner companion. 

It wasn’t that James Beckwith was a bad person. Or even that he was bad looking. Quite the opposite. Perfect hair, chiselled jaw, muscled but not overly bulky; he looked like one of those models she’d seen on the front of GQ, all designer stubble and perfect tailoring. She’d say one thing in his favour: the man knew how to fill a suit, and an expensive suit at that. 

No, on paper, he was perfect Buffy boy candy. He ticked all the boxes. He was even aware of the more supernatural elements of her existence, he too working for the Council, only in the Finances Department. It was just that he was deadly dull. So dull, in fact, that she had spent most of the previous hour trying not to poke her own eyes out with the cutlery just for a bit of excitement. 

Over the course of an admittedly rather excellent three course dinner, they had broached such fascinating topics as the weather, the weekend engineering works on the Victoria and Central lines, his seemingly endless list of pet peeves regarding the upgrade to the Council’s accountancy software, and his predictions for the upcoming Premier League season. They did, at one point, stray briefly onto the topic of the coming season’s menswear, sartorial standards being of distinctly more interest to Buffy than either football or the recent heat wave. But it didn’t last, the conversation segueing, despite her best efforts, into one focused more on the range of the lunch menu in the Council canteen. 

Almost bed-wetting excitement for James seemed to be more along the lines of finding pickle unexpectedly on a cheese sandwich. For a woman who spent her spare time hunting and subsequently dispatching some of the deadlier creatures in existence, it didn’t exactly make for stimulating conversation.

Not, she supposed, that he could help it. He was an accountant, after all. 

Buffy sighed heavily, glancing at her watch. It was 9.30pm. The night was still young, and she was almost certain that James’ next topic of conversation would be about which bars in the vicinity were worth being ‘seen’ at, and which were not. Not that Buffy didn’t regard this as useful information, deep at heart she was still a Valley Girl, she just didn’t think the effort of suffering through several more hours of jejune James was worth it. 

But what to do? It was too early to feign tiredness, and being a Friday evening, there was no excuse to be had regarding work the following morning. She couldn’t lie about patrol. As a Councilman, albeit one who worked in Admin, he probably knew the extent of her Slaying duties, so that was out. 

‘Sorry, I find you super boring,’ was out, too. Besides, he was nice enough, just dull. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. 

Leaning against the sink, trying to work out her next move, Buffy heard the buzz of her phone as it vibrated against the countertop. She fished it out from the depths of her handbag and opened it with a flick of her wrist. On the screen a little icon bobbed up and down, indicating a new text message. It was from Rona. 

_Need files on polgara asap. 4 in NYC. Thxs._

Buffy grinned. The digital copies of those files were on the Council system; she’d need to be at her desktop to send them, which meant a trip to the office. Excellent. 

Saved by the bell. Or, rather, the buzz. 

She fired off a quick reply. Then, armed with the perfect excuse, she returned to the restaurant and her waiting date to give him the bad news.

***

It took Buffy twenty minutes and two changes on the Tube to get back to the office. The recent heat wave had made traveling on the Underground almost unbearable; even now, the temperature dropping as the evening progressed and the train carriages almost deserted, it was unbearably hot and stuffy below ground. She was sweating when she emerged into the fresh evening air at Charring Cross. Thanking every deity could think of for the blessedly cool breeze, she began to make her way towards the Council offices.

After the destruction of the previous Council buildings by the agents of The First, the Watchers’ Council had relocated, taking up residence in Whitehall at the behest of the British Government. Though it still retained its independence, the new Watchers’ Council worked closely with the Secret Service and MoD, actively consulting on situations with more of a supernatural element than either organization were used to. It had been one of Robson’s bright ideas; secrecy was all well and good, but collaboration was better. It got things done. And so, as payment for their services, the Council had been given new offices right in the very heart of power, along with the freedom to operate as they saw fit.

It was a deal that had worked out very well for all parties concerned. The streets of London, and the wider world, were safer than ever before. 

Passing through Trafalgar Square, tourists still milling about by the great fountains despite the late hour, she turned onto Whitehall then down a small, pedestrianized side street towards her destination. She passed the barriers and the glass security booth that guarded the entrance, flashing her ID as she went. Up the large stone steps to the mahogany doors that concealed a layer of blast-proof steel. The great, white edifice of the Council headquarters towered above her as she swiped her card for entry, the stone that made up its façade intricately carved around the windows and doors. The sound of clunking metal filled the air as the locks released, the door swinging open with an electric hum. 

Stuffing her card back into her purse, Buffy walked into the foyer, her heels clacking noisily against the black and white tiles. Geoff, the Night Porter, gave her a cheery little wave from his desk as she made her way towards the lift and her office on the second floor. In his mid fifties, his hair a shocking white and his breathing laboured even at rest, Geoff Cowan had been one of the few to survive the bombing five years before. It was from the smoke, he’d told her when she’d asked about the wheeze, though she suspected the real culprit was the 40-a-day habit he’d had for the past twenty years, and probably the twenty before that. He reminded Buffy a little of her grandfather, albeit a stockier and with a Devonshire accent; both charming and sweet with a core of steel. 

“Mr. Giles was looking for you earlier,” he said, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip from his steaming mug of tea. “Told him you’d gone home.”

Buffy paused, finger on the lift call button, turning to face the elderly Porter. He gave her a sympathetic smile, the white whiskers that decorated his upper lip bristling with the movement. 

“Do you know why?” she asked carefully. 

“Not a clue, Miss. I think he’s still here, though, if you want to ask him yourself.”

The man in question had been in a snit for most of the day, though god only knew why. Nothing the poor girls had done today had been right, with even their best efforts merely serving to add fuel to the fire. If Buffy were a betting woman, she’d have put money on it being something to do with her date this evening, as nonsensical as that was. After all, it had been Giles who had insisted she date; Buffy was merely following orders, if a little reluctantly. It helped keep the peace between them. 

Only it didn’t, if today had been anything to go by. 

The loud ding of the lift echoed through the almost empty foyer. 

_“Ground floor. Lift going up.”_

Buffy sighed heavily. “Thanks for telling me.”

The lift took Buffy to the third floor of the left wing, the speakers set high into the walls playing The Girl from Ipanema on a crackling loop. She emerged into the high-ceilinged corridor with a purpose to her stride. Burgundy carpet stretched out beneath her feet, and from the ceiling hung warm lamps beneath cream shades, the fittings a burnished rose-gold. Upon the walls, portraits of long dead Lords, Ladies and other characters of notable rank hung in ornate frames, their names etched into brass plaques below. Doors to the offices of the high-ranking Watchers were spaced at even intervals down the hall, mirroring those below that belonged to the more senior Slayers. And, as with those below, they were dark and empty, their occupants having retired for the night, either to sleep or to slay. 

At the very end of the corridor, behind a heavy oak door with a golden plate bearing the name _‘M R. R. E. GILES’_, a light was shining. Giles was still working, it seemed. As she drew closer to his door, she wondered whether his mood had improved. 

Only one way to find out. 

The knock sounded dreadfully loud in the deserted hallway. Buffy brushed her hair out of her face as she waited for a reply. It did not take long.

“Yes,” came the barked response. 

Apparently not.

Steeling herself for the inevitable argument that would surely follow, Buffy opened the door, stepping inside his office with her head held high. She was still mad at him over her disastrous date. Not that it was really his fault. He hadn’t specifically chosen James as a potential paramour; that was something she had done alone. Indeed, Buffy wasn’t sure he even knew who James was. Nor had he made her fall dangerously close to being in love with him; she’d done that all by herself, too. But he had insisted she date, which was more than enough to provoke her ire, however displaced. 

He was sat as his desk, frown creasing his brow as he glared down at the notepad on which he was hastily scrawling. Buffy could see the tension in his frame, in the way he held the pen, the point pushed deep into the paper as he wrote. 

“Giles,” she said tartly.

“Oh, hello, Buffy,” he replied, his face softening as he looked up, placing the pen and the piece of paper he held in his right hand down upon the large box file that took up most of his desk. “You look nice.”

The complement caught her off-guard, knocking the wind from her sails. She felt her heart skip at his words, her stomach filled with butterflies. She willed the feelings away, well aware he meant nothing by it beyond mere friendly politeness. 

“Er, thanks,” she said, irritation momentarily forgotten, letting his office door close with a soft click behind her. She stood frozen, trying to remember exactly why she’d knocked to begin with. After a moment, it came to her. “Geoff said you were looking for me.”

He waved away the statement with an air of casual dismissal, taking a large gulp of tea from the cup sat beside the keyboard. He grimaced, glaring down at the cup as he set it back down upon its saucer as though it had done him a terrible injustice. 

“Urgh, cold,” he said, making a face. He blinked owlishly, giving his head a little shake as he did so, as though he were clearing out the cobwebs. “Geoff, did you say? I honestly can’t remember now. Probably wasn’t all that important.” His eyes seemed to refocus, coming to rest on her. “Off out for the evening?”

“Just came back, actually. Date night, remember? Had to bail,” she said, approaching his desk. “What are doing?”

“Nothing of any great significance,” he replied, snapping the open file shut before she had a chance to snoop further. “General admin, answering emails, that sort of thing.”

Buffy paused, thinking. He looked dreadfully tired. His hair was in disarray, its current state the product of weary fidgeting rather than any deliberate attempt at style; his tie hung loosely about his neck, the top two buttons of his creased shirt undone; there was a drawn look to his face, and what she suspected might be the beginnings of a tension headache. The last of her irritation evaporated. 

“Well,” she said slowly, an idea forming, “if you’re not doing anything important, fancy playing hookey?”

He frowned. “Pardon?”

“Hookey. You know, bunking off. Truant.” She perched upon the edge of the desk, careful not to topple the precarious towers of files and books that littered its surface. “Wait, what did you call it at that meeting last week? Skiving?”

Giles rubbed his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. 

“I don’t know, Buffy. I do have rather a lot to do.”

“It’s 10pm on a Friday. It’s practically the weekend.” She gave him a nudge, fishing the keys to his garden out of her purse. The jangled merrily between her fingers. “Live a little.”

Giles let out a long sigh, slumping back in his chair gracelessly. 

“Well, I suppose I could come down with a terribly convenient case of skiveitis for the weekend,” he said thoughtfully. He gestured at the mess of his desk. “It’s not as though any of this is going anywhere anytime soon.”

“That’s the spirit.” She flashed him a toothy grin, sliding from her perch. “I’ve got to go and send some stuff to Rona. Something about Polgaras in New York. Ten minutes?”

“Fine,” he said with a nod. “But we’ll stay at mine tonight and head over to Gloucestershire in the morning. I’m not entirely confident I’ll manage the drive without incident.” He gave her a tired smile. “The spare room’s made up, in any case. And it saves me coming to pick you up in the morning.” 

She tossed the keys towards him. He caught them deftly, sliding them into his trouser pocket where they jangled merrily against the change he kept there. 

“Sounds good to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I’ve been thinking,” said Giles as he stepped into the kitchen, large silver bowl full of strawberries in his hands. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” replied Buffy from her spot on the kitchen counter, fanning herself lazily with a dog-eared copy of Vogue. 

It was sunset and the heat of the day was just beginning to ebb. The cool evening breeze blew in through the window from the garden, bringing with it the heady scent of the honeysuckle that bloomed in the beds that lined the wall. 

Having arrived early that morning, the pair had spent the vast majority of the day out in the faux sunshine of the garden; Giles tending to the flower beds over by the far eastern wall, Buffy splitting her time between harvesting the ripened fruit from the strawberry runners and raspberry canes, and making daisy chains as she sat sunning herself upon the grass beneath the wisteria. 

Giles made a sour face, casting a half-hearted glare in her direction. “Yes, yes, very droll. However, I have been thinking,” he said, placing the bowl in the sink beside her. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s high time I gave you a bit of the garden to call you own. Somewhere you can plant, well, anything you want really.” He looked down at his hands where they rested on the lip of the bowl. “I-If you would like that, that is,” he finished shyly, unwilling to meet her gaze. 

Buffy blinked, taken aback. Though he had given her a key to the house and the garden within, a key that had been in her possession for well over a year, she still thought of it as very much Giles’ sanctuary. It was his place away from the world; a place where he could hide from the various trappings that came with his role as Head of the Watcher’s Council, for a little while, at least. She felt as though she were merely an interloper, intruding upon the quiet haven he had made for himself, despite his frequent protestations otherwise.

And yet, here he was, offering a piece of his sanctuary to her. A piece she could truly call her own. 

“I don’t think I’d know where to begin,” she said dumbly, a little overwhelmed. 

“Well, I could always help. I have plenty of books on the topic, and more than a little practical experience.” He frowned, then added, “Not that you have to take me up on my offer. I’d understand if you’d rather not. I invited you here to enjoy yourself, not to add to your responsibilities.”

“No,” she said quickly, placing a hand on his arm. She felt a jolt of heat flash through her as she touched him, but willed it away. Or tried to, at least. “I mean, thank you. I’d really like that.”

Giles brightened, a small smile curling at the very edges of his lips as he met her gaze. Buffy felt her breath catch in her throat as she saw the wealth of emotion there. Not in his expression, which had remained one of quiet contentment, but in his eyes. She watched as his pupils dilated, his irises becoming mere rings of green around deep black centres. Time seemed almost to pause for a second or two, and she could have sworn Giles had leant closer. Her skin prickled with heat, an odd sort of tension settling low in her belly. She felt her heartbeat begin to pick up pace, and an answering throb settle between her thighs. Her mouth went dry and she felt herself moving closer.

Then Buffy blinked and, just like that, the moment was broken. Gone, almost as if it had never been. 

“You’re welcome,” said Giles softly, his attention returning to the sink and to the bowl of strawberries therein. 

Buffy took a deep breath, her eyes closing briefly as she fought to gather her scattered wits. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Indeed, moments like this were becoming somewhat of a common occurrence between them, their frequency increasing with each passing week, the tension between them becoming almost palpable at times. 

It had started not long after their last fight, months ago now; the fight that had ended up revealing a great deal more than merely bruised egos. Quite literally, in Giles’ case. She bit back a smile as she remembered the sight of her former Watcher, naked and achingly hard beneath her, begging for her touch. It was a memory she revisited often, especially on lonely nights when she had nothing save the TV for company. 

Only, now that she thought about it, maybe it hadn’t begun then. Maybe there had been such moments earlier in their, well, their not-a-relationship, and she simply hadn’t noticed, chalking them up to wishful thinking on her part. 

But now? Now she was certain this wasn’t just wishful thinking, or wilful delusion. No, this was as much his doing as hers. And, were it anyone else, she would have sworn that these moments meant… well, something. But this was Giles, a man who refused even the barest hint of a kiss, who confessed only a platonic sort of love for her, despite the base nature of their arrangement. A man who barely touched her at all, never mind intimately, when her neck was bare. A man who went to great pains to stress the nature of their relationship, both what it was and what it was not, who encouraged her to date, to be free with her affections. To find love elsewhere.

So who knew what it meant? What any of it meant? 

It was simultaneously exhilarating and confusing. And Buffy didn’t like to dwell on it. 

“So what’s for dinner, Watcher-man?” she asked, peering down at the bowl in the sink, trying to ignore the low ache that had settled between the crux of her thighs. She shifted position, hoping Giles wouldn’t notice her sudden discomfort, nor guess the cause. She could do without a re-hash of the whole ‘I don’t love you that way, Buffy’ argument. Once was more than enough. 

She felt like a teenager all over again. A mess of hormones, suddenly unable to control her body’s reaction to even the merest hint of affection tossed her way. It was embarrassing. 

Stupid Giles and his stupid moments.

“I think there may be some smoked salmon in the fridge,” he said, expertly hulling the strawberries, seemingly unaware of her predicament. “Would some sort of salad be acceptable?” 

“Very acceptable,” she replied. “And the strawberries?”

“For later.”

Buffy reached into her pocket and pulled out a fine golden chain and lock, letting it swing from her index finger, questioning. 

Though they had not gone back to their use of sobriquets, Giles no longer deeming it necessary, the illusion of separation between themselves and their alter egos utterly shattered, he still insisted upon the collar. It was a symbol of his control, of their dual lives: a mark that divided Buffy the Slayer from Buffy the submissive. He would not touch her without it. It was his line in the sand, and it was a line he did not cross. Would not cross.

Only, that line seemed to be becoming a little blurry of late. 

“Same goes for that.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, letting the chain drop to the countertop with a metallic clink. 

“You’re no fun,” she said with a pout. “Fun killer.”

She reached into the bowl, but Giles batted her hand away with a tut. Removing his watch, he turned on the tap and began to rinse the strawberries, giving the bowl a deft little flick as he did so.

“How did your date go with… oh, what’s his name? John?” he said, changing the subject.

“James,” corrected Buffy, grimacing. “And badly, if you must know.”

“Oh?”

“So. Dull.” She sighed heavily. “Would not shut up about this sandwich thing he bought in the Council café last week. Highlight of his life, apparently.”

“So no second date on the cards, then?” he asked carefully, suddenly very intent on the contents of the bowl. 

“Absolutely not.” She paused, thoughtful. “I couldn’t, by any chance, convince you to be my date for this Council thingy-whatsit next Saturday? Save me from the snoozefest?”

The following weekend was the Council’s annual Phoenix Ball, renamed after the bombing. So far, in the four years she had spent employed by the Council, she had managed to avoid each one under the pretense of essential, and more importantly top-secret, Slayer business. The fact that she had instead spent said evenings in her flat watching telly was information only Giles and Dawn had been privy to, the former turning a blind eye, and the latter making an effort to join, arriving at her door with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s in hand. 

This year, however, her attendance was mandatory. Even Giles had said so, albeit with more sympathy than either Robson or Sirk had done. It was not something she was particularly looking forward to. Though, in theory, the dressing up and the drinking and the dancing was very appealing, she knew that her evening would be dominated by making polite and boring small talk with other senior Council members, her every move painfully political. There was no amount of pretty silk dresses and horrendously expensive shoes in the world that could make up for that amount of aggravation. 

Giles shook his head, pressing the back of his hand against the tap to shut off the water. “I’m not entirely sure that would be appropriate, considering our respective positions within the Council.”

“So I take it that’s a whole ‘no’ on the pity date front.”

“You take correctly,” he replied, carefully draining the strawberries and setting the bowl upon the countertop beside her. 

“And there was I thinking you’d be my knight in shining armour.”

“Chivalry’s dead, or so I’ve been told.” With a small smile, he plucked an overripe strawberry from the bowl and moved to stand before her, the fabric of his midnight-blue shirt brushing against her bare knees. He tapped her knees and she widened her legs, Giles moving to step into the gap. “Besides, I’ve always been of the opinion that you are far more suited to shiny armour than I.”

“Well, I do look fabulous in chainmail,” she said with a grin. 

“Doubtless.”

“Though I think that would make you the damsel in distress.”

She poked him accusingly in the chest with her index finger. Quick as lightening, he grasped the offending digit, pushing it away, his fingers lacing with her own as he did so. 

“I prefer to think of myself as more of a bloke in a bit of a pickle.” 

Buffy felt her heart skip a beat in her chest. She swallowed, trying to concentrate on the conversation rather than the feel of his hand in hers, or the heat of him against her skin. 

“But what about the chiffon?” she said with a tilt of her head, forcing her voice to remain light and playful. “No damsel, no pretty dresses.”

“We all have our crosses to bear,” he replied, taking a step closer, the tops of his thighs now flush with the countertop. 

Slowly, he raised the strawberry in his free hand to her lips, questioning look upon his face. Buffy leant forward, taking a bite from the ruby-red fruit. Her eyes fluttered closed in pleasure as the full, fresh flavour hit her tongue. Perfectly sweet and juicy, it tasted like heaven, nothing like the sharp, tasteless strawberries bought at horrendous mark-up at the supermarket. 

She felt Giles sweep the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, wiping away the juice that still lingered upon it. Her eyes flickered open. She heard herself make something that sounded suspiciously like a whimper as her she watched him bring his hand to his mouth, his lips wrapping softly around the tip of his thumb, his eyes never leaving her face. 

He quirked a dark eyebrow, the beginnings of a self-satisfied smirk beginning to curl at his lips as he slowly withdrew the digit.

“Shut up,” said Buffy, blushing. 

“I said nothing,” he protested, unlacing his fingers from her and placing his hands upon her bare knees. She could feel the slight dampness of his spit-slicked skin where it pressed lightly into her flesh. It was oddly erotic. 

“Maybe you should let your face know that, huh?” 

Giles ran his hands up the tops of her thighs, his touch light until he reached her hips, where it became firmer, his thumbs rubbing against the twin ridges of her hipbones through soft fabric of her dress. 

“How rude,” he said, and with a sudden jerk pulled her forward until she sat perched upon the very edge of the countertop, her dress ruched up to the crux of her thighs, her lips inches from his own. “You cut me to the quick.”

The sheer closeness of him was intoxicating. She could feel the heat that radiated from him through the light cotton of her sundress; smell the scent of his aftershave, sandalwood and vetiver, smoky and deep; practically taste the tea that sweetened his breath. A few inches more and their lips would touch. But neither of them moved to close the gap.

“Giles?” she said, her voice a little shakier than she’d have liked. 

He blinked, then took a step back, his hands sliding from her hips to rest on the countertop. And, just like that, the blurred line between them began to sharpen. 

“The lock,” he said, eyes averted. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed roughly. “Please.” 

Buffy reached down onto the countertop, plucking the delicate chain from its place upon the marble. With shaky fingers, she looped the chain around her neck, the lock snapping shut with a little click. It felt pleasingly cool against her throat, her skin now tingling with heat. 

Giles’ nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, his eyes once more locking with her own. He was so close she could see the small fleck of brown that marked his muddy green irises, see the way the light glinted off the lenses of his glasses. He did not, however, move to touch her, his hands remaining firmly upon the counter. 

“First rule of the evening,” said Giles quietly. “I want you to put your hands on the table.”

Buffy complied, pressing the flat of her palms against the smooth marble surface of the countertop beside his own. She let her little finger brush against his index, delighting in the slight hitch in his breath as she did so. She rolled her shoulders, giving a slight arch to her back. She swallowed as she watched Giles’ gaze dip briefly down to her chest before locking once more with her own, his pupils dilated. 

“Second rule,” he said, leaning closer. “You are not to close your eyes.”

Buffy bit her lip, feeling a wave of heat roll through her at his command. This was one he rarely made; generally he preferred to blindfold her, making her rely on her other senses, ramping up the anticipation as he waited, unseen, until she begged for his touch. But, as much as she enjoyed their more usual games, there was something about watching him that she found more stimulating than anything else. The sight of his skin, exposed here and there in the barest slivers, peeking through undone buttons and rolled up sleeves, slick with sweat and glistening; the way he moved, each manoeuvre powerful and precise up until the final moments; the expression on his face as he lost himself to the pleasure of touching her. Watching him was almost unbearably erotic. Even the suggestion alone left the folds of her sex shamelessly slick with anticipation.

Buffy shifted upon the countertop, seeking friction, pressure, anything to ease the throbbing ache that pulsed through her clit. God, she was so close to orgasm already it was embarrassing; she both hated and loved that he could do this to her with nothing more than a few choice words. 

She wanted him to touch her, her expression one of pleading, but still his hands remained upon the counter. 

He leant closer. 

“Third and final rule,” he whispered, his breath hot against her neck, his lips a hair’s breadth from touching the shell of her ear. “Tonight, you are not allowed to come until I tell you.”

“What if I can’t help it?” she gasped. 

Giles stepped back, peering at her over the tops of his spectacles in mock severity. 

“Then I’ll have to punish you,” he said, placing his hands gently upon the bare skin of her thighs, his smirk widening she fought not to moan. 

Fuck. 

He’d barely touched her, and still she’d felt the muscles of her belly tighten, her cunt twitch, as if on the verge of coming. And the thought of punishment wasn’t helping. 

She took a deep breath, then a second, forcing herself to calm down. 

Okay. She could do this. Mind over matter, right?

“What you gonna do?” she said, aiming for a teasing tone, but didn’t quite manage it. “Spank me?”

A small, rather curious part of her mind hoped the answer would be yes. She tried her best to ignore it. 

“I think not.”

“I bet you’d enjoy it, though,” she said, slightly disappointed. 

“That is rather beside the point, don’t you think?” Giles tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. He flexed his hand, nails digging briefly into her soft skin before his grip loosened once more. A satisfied little smile graced his features as she gasped at the sudden sting. “There are better ways to explore the fine line that exists between pain and pleasure. Should you decide that sadomasochism is something you wish to investigate further, then I’m confident I will be able to adequately cater to your needs without resorting to something so mundane as a spanking.” 

“Kinky.”

“Shocking, I know,” he drawled, smoothing the flat of his hand across the inside of her thigh. “Whoever would have thought?” 

“Is that what you’re into, then?”

“What, sadism?” he said, his hand moving higher. “Good Lord, no. Whilst your use of the term ‘kinky’ is quite apt, sadism has never been something I have found a particular pleasure in beyond a very superficial level. Other things yes, but not that.”

Buffy tilted her head, curious. “Like?”

“Surely, given the evidence before you, you can answer your own question.”

His hand was now at the crease of her thigh, his fingertips tracing the soft skin beneath the lace edge of her knickers. His touch was light and teasing and so very distracting. She shook her head, willing herself to concentrate. 

“Dominance?” she said.

She gasped as his fingers slipped beneath cotton and lace, and brushed lightly against the folds of her sex in reward. A low moan rumbled from the depths of her chest. She tilted her hips, allowing him better access, but still his touch remained feather light. 

“And?” 

It was so hard to think with his hand there, the tips of his fingers occasionally catching her clit, sending shocks of pure pleasure coursing through her. She felt her nipples tighten into hard little pebbles, brushing sensuously against the fabric of her dress as her back arched. 

“Bondage?” she said with a gasp.

“Appreciated, certainly, but not, as you put it, something I am into.” His hand moved higher, away from the folds of her sex, threading through the neatly trimmed hair that decorated her mons. “Try again.”

“Discipline?”

“Do you think yourself particularly disciplined?”

Buffy snorted. He had a point.

“Think.”

Slowly, his hand moved lower once again, the tip of his middle finger dipping briefly into her cunt before descending lower still to stroke the sensitive skin of her perineum. He had never touched her there before, but the intense sensation it created was not an unwelcome one. Quite the opposite. 

“You’re making it kinda hard, here,” she said, a strangled sort of sound emerging from her throat as a second finger began to circle her entrance. 

“At the risk of sounding flippant, ditto.”

“Giles!”

Unable to help herself, her eyes dropped to the rather prominent bulge in the fabric of his dark jeans. Her mouth went dry at the sight. 

“It was too good an opportunity to miss.” He grinned. “Well, any further thoughts?”

‘I…” she said, her head lolling back as his second hand moved to cup her breast, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

She felt him press his lips against the chain around her neck, the tiny lock that nestled in the hollow of her throat. In the haze of her mind, what little concentration she had left fighting against the almost overwhelming urge to come, she began to put two and two together.

“Control,” she said. “It’s about control. And not just over me, but over yourself, too.”

“Full marks,” he whispered against her skin, pressing a long finger into her. 

“Fuck! Giles!”

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut, her breath hissing out from between her teeth. She was so close. So close. 

“Look at me.”

With some effort, she complied with his request. She swallowed roughly as she took in his appearance; his eyes were wild behind his glasses, his face flushed, his skin holding a faint sheen of sweat. He looked dangerous, as though he were about to pounce, he a beast and she his prey. And yet, despite the lust that so clearly coursed through him, he held himself rigidly in control. 

“You are not to come until I tell you,” he said, his voice tight. He withdrew his hands completely, placing them back upon the countertop beside hers. “And have I told you?”

“No.”

Buffy watched as Giles blinked, breathing deeply. 

“Good girl.” 

Nodding to himself, he took a small foil packet from the left hand pocket of his jeans. With almost ruthless efficiency, he unzipped the fly of his trousers, tore open the packet and rolled the condom over his rock-hard cock. Fingers dipping beneath the sodden fabric of her knickers, he pressed his hand against the wet folds of her cunt before taking himself into his fist and giving two quick strokes, leaving the latex slick and shiny. 

An intense look upon his face, Giles pressed a hand against her shoulder, pushing her back until she rested upon her forearms, her palms still firmly flat upon the counter. Buffy moaned as she felt his hands smooth up the insides of her thighs to her hips, fingers hooking beneath the elastic of her knickers. She lifted herself up as he tugged them from her, casting them carelessly upon the kitchen floor. 

“You are not to come until I have done so,” he said, sliding his hands beneath her now bare buttocks, the tip of his cock pressing against her entrance. 

And with that he thrust into her in one powerful stroke, his moans drowning out Buffy’s own. 

She felt herself clench tightly around him, her cunt twitching involuntarily from the friction as he withdrew and thrust back in harder than before. Her legs came up to wrap around his waist, drawing him tighter to her, changing the angle. She groaned as it brought the still-fastened button of his jeans against her clit, sending shocks of pleasure through her. She was so close it hurt. Her skin felt as though it were on fire, her breath coming in sharp little pants. Her hands clenched upon the counter, nails biting into the flesh of her palms, the pain the only thing preventing her from careering over the edge into sweet oblivion. 

“I’m going to – I – I’m going –” 

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, cutting her off, his nails digging almost painfully into the soft flesh of her buttocks. 

Buffy watched as his muscles began to tense, his next thrust more erratic than the last. His face was a picture of concentration, his green eyes, now so dark they were almost black, boring into her own. He was close, too. 

“Giles, I can’t. I can’t.” It was practically a sob. “Please.”

A shaky thrust, deeper than before. 

“Not yet!”

And another. 

“Please!”

“Jesus, fuck!”

Buffy watched his face contort as he came, the sight triggering her own orgasm. It hit her like a freight train, the sudden release of tension making her whole body shake, her mind almost short-circuiting. She was floating on a wave of pleasure. No, not floating, drowning, gasping for air as her world faded out around her. 

It took her a moment or two to regain her wits. Her body felt like it was made of jelly. She was shaking, exhausted and aching, but sated. A grin rose involuntarily to her face, the endorphins that coursed through her system making her feel slightly lightheaded.

She went to push herself back up onto her forearms, having collapsed back as she came, but found her movements obstructed.

Oh, yes, Giles. 

It appeared he had slumped on top of her, his head resting between the valley of her breasts. 

“Hello,” she said, threading a hand through his hair. It was silky soft and ever so slightly damp.

She felt him stir. Slowly, he pushed himself up, bracing himself against the countertop. A faint blush coloured his cheeks. 

“Well,” he said, eyes averted. “That was a little embarrassing. I, er, I’ve not done that since I was a teenager.”

Buffy frowned, wondering what on earth he meant. And then it clicked. 

“If it helps,” said Buffy, pressing a hand against his chest, feeling the pound of his heart against his ribs, “I don’t think I could have lasted much longer, either.”

“Still…”

Balancing his weight on one, shaky hand, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, still unwilling to look her in the eye. 

“Hey, so what? One satisfied lady here,” she said, clenching her inner muscles, a wide grin spreading over her face as he gasped. “Quality not quantity, right?”

Giles snorted. “Yes, however, the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. 

“If you say so.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting - I had rather a catastrophic technical failure. Thank you to the wonderful DragonyPhoenix, who was kind enough to swap posting days with me.

The sound of knocking cut through the early morning quiet that had settled over the cottage. 

“Was that the door?”

Giles shrugged. Or at least attempted to. His hands were a little busy. 

“I doubt it. No-one knows we’re here, and there’s no post on Sundays.”

Buffy relaxed back into the soft mattress, delighting in the feel of his hands as they swept across her bare chest. A small noise of appreciation escaped her as his fingertips brushed briefly across the stiff pebbles of her nipples. She felt rather than heard Giles’ soft chuckle.

They were in her room, Giles having brought her breakfast in bed. Toast with jam, raspberry, and a mug of steaming coffee, black, two sugars. From the corner of her eye, Buffy could see the discarded plate threatening to tip over the edge of the bed as Giles shifted above her. She considered pointing it out, save him the task of hoovering up the sticky crumbs that would inevitably scatter across the carpet, but just as she was about to speak, Giles bent forward and mouthed gently at her breast. His tongue flickered over the stiff peak of her nipple and Buffy forgot about the plate, his name leaving her lips in a gasp. Her fingers twitched as she fought not to bring them up to tangle in his hair. 

That was this morning’s game; no touching. Only feeling.

Unable to trust herself, Buffy raised her arms, linking her fingers behind her head. The movement made her back arch ever so slightly. In response, Giles bit down lightly upon the underside of her breast, his left hand moving lower, smoothing over the flat of her belly. 

Again, there was the sound of knocking, louder this time. 

“Okay, that was definitely the door,” said Buffy, twisting her hips to push him from her. 

He groaned, flopping down on to the bed beside her, arms crossed, face sour. 

“Well?” she said, trying to ignore the ache between her thighs. 

She was half dressed, Giles having caught her just as she had been about to leave, her t-shirt and bra lost somewhere down beside the bed. He was still fully clothed, if a little rumpled round the edges. Surely he didn’t expect her to go and answer the door, did he? After all, it was his house. Whoever it was waiting upon the doorstep wanted to see him. 

“Giles?”

He looked at her pointedly. “I can’t very well go and get it, can I?” 

She glanced down, taking in the rather _impressive_ state of his trousers.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” she said with a grin, pushing herself up from the bed and gathering her hastily discarded t-shirt from the floor. “On it.”

Ensuring she was at least half-way decent, the lock hidden beneath her collar, Buffy made her way down the hallway towards the front door. The knocking continued, growing more impatient as the seconds passed. 

“Hello?” she said, easing open the heavy door and squinting out into the early morning sunlight. 

Upon the step stood two young women, one blonde and the other brunette. Expensively dressed, too, if Buffy were any judge, the heels of their sky-high shoes sinking into the deep gravel of the driveway. They had an air about them that spoke of old money, their clothing not fashionable, per se, but timeless; one in wide-legged trousers and blouse, the other a bias-cut dress, both outfits finished with silk scarves and round-lensed sunglasses. She glanced over their shoulders, half expecting to see one of those classic cars from the movies parked upon the driveway. The kind with the open top and the spare wheel in front of the passenger door. 

“You’re not Rupert.”

They were an observant pair, she’d give them that.

“Nope. I’m Buffy.” She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

“Goodness, where are my manners? I’m Lavinia. Vin,” said the brunette, pressing a slim hand to her heart before gesturing to the woman beside her. “And this is Sophronia.”

“Sophie,” the second corrected, brushing away the hair that had fallen over her face with a neat little flick of her fingers. “We’re relatives of Rupert’s.”

“His aunts.”

Buffy blinked in surprise. Aunts? They couldn’t be more than thirty, at a guess. It seemed unlikely. But then again, there was a certain family resemblance, now that she looked. The nose; the height; eyes, too, now they had removed their sunglasses; in the slightly haughty way the pair held themselves. 

“He’s never mentioned any aunts,” she said.

“Hardly surprising,” replied Vin.

“The poor boy’s embarrassed by us,” clarified Sophie. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look kinda young.”

“One of the many benefits of living a charmed existence,” said Sophie. “Quite literally, in our case.”

“You’re witches?”

Her lips, pillar box red, quirked into a smile. “My, aren’t you quick on the uptake?”

“May we come in?” asked Vin. 

Buffy stood a moment, considering. The pair didn’t seem dangerous, and the house was warded; Giles had made quite sure of that. Nodding, she stepped back, holding open the door.

“Thank you, darling,” said Vin, patting her on the shoulder as she brushed passed, Sophie in tow. 

Buffy watched as the pair made their way down the hall to the left-hand door; the one that led to the living-room and the garden beyond. Clearly, they were familiar with the layout of the house, strange as it was. Shaking her head, the front door swinging shut with a creak behind her, she ran to catch up. 

“So, you’re little Ru’s new bit of fun, then?” said Sophie, settling herself upon the large Chesterfield along the far wall, aged leather creaking beneath her slight frame. 

Buffy frowned, perching awkwardly on the sideboard beside the door. “Sorry?”

“You know,” she said, smile widening into a grin. “Fun.”

“I’m his Slayer.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Such a pity, even if you are American,” she replied. “Anyone would think the man a monk, the way he carries on.”

“You can hardly blame him,” said Vin, who was elegantly sprawled in the wingback chair across from her sister. “He has had rather rotten luck.”

“I can and I shall. It’s been years.” Sophie punctuated her words with a dismissive little wave, the golden bangles upon her wrist jangling noisily as she did so. She shifted in her seat so that her legs, bare, were tucked primly beneath her. “Luck, rum or otherwise, is no excuse.”

“She did die, Sophie. That’s not the sort of thing one simply gets over.”

Comprehension slowly dawned. Miss Calendar. They were talking about Jenny. Of course, they knew about that; they were family. Her former Watcher may not have been the most open of individuals when it came to his personal life, but presumably there were some things he did share. She wondered what else they knew. Giles was somewhat of a closed book. She had so many questions, ones she had asked him herself, yet he had failed to answer. Did he have siblings? Cousins? He clearly had aunts, but uncles? And the woman in the photograph on his nightstand; who was she? 

Buffy opened her mouth to enquire further, almost certain Vin and Sophie would give her the answers she sought, when the door opened beside her. A slightly more respectable-looking Giles than the one she had left emerged from the corridor beyond. He stopped dead beside her, blinking owlishly behind his glasses.

“Rupert, sweetheart!”

Buffy bit back a giggle at the look of horror upon her former Watcher’s face as he surveyed the scene. 

“Oh, good grief,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “To what do I owe the misfortune?”

“That’s no way to speak to family, Rupert,” chided Vin. 

Giles closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “Apologies.”

“Better.”

Sophie eagerly tapped the space beside her, an expectant look on her elegant features. “Come. Sit.”

“I’m not a dog,” he grumbled, but complied with her request, easing himself down beside her with a grunt. “I note you haven’t answered my question.”

“We were in the area,” said Vin.

“Thought we ought to call in on our favourite nephew,” added Sophie. 

“Your only nephew.”

“Which, luckily for you, makes you the favourite by default,” said Vin, smartly. 

“And I supposed you knocked entirely on a whim, did you?” said Giles with a grimace. 

“Not precisely.”

Buffy watched as Vin pulled a long, golden chain from the depths of her shirt. A dark green crystal, the size and shape of cigarette, dangled from it. She could feel a strange sort of power radiating from the object; one that brushed just at the very tips of her senses, like a ghost, leaving her teeth ever so slightly on edge. 

“Tracking spell? Must be serious, then.” He gave the pair a pointed look. “Go on. Out with it.”

Vin and Sophie shared a wary glance before turning back to their nephew, a serious expression upon their faces.

“It’s Morag,” said Vin, quietly.

Giles’ eyebrows rose in what Buffy thought might have been surprise, but he said nothing. Puzzled, she tried to catch his attention. He ignored her, his focus solely upon the two women.

“She’s staying with us at the minute, at the house in Westbury with the Coven,” said Sophie, carefully inspecting her fingernails. 

“Arrived last week.”

“Unexpectedly.”

“She’s been asking after you.”

Giles held up a hand, stemming the flow of conversation. He turned to Buffy, removing his glasses and polishing them on the hem of his chequered shirt. 

“I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.” His face was blank, giving no hint of his thoughts or feelings. “Would you mind?”

“Tea?”

He nodded. “The Earl Grey from the tin on the countertop, I think.”

“Gotcha,” she replied, pushing herself up from her place against the sideboard. 

Clearly, whatever they were about to discuss, he did not want her privy to. Yet more secrets. Buffy bit back a sigh, feeling oddly betrayed. They were friends, almost lovers, and still he kept things from her. Lying by omission. She let the door close behind her, but instead of heading to the kitchen, she paused, listening. It was wrong to eavesdrop like this, she knew, but her curiosity was almost overwhelming. Two minutes. Then she’d go get the tea. 

Silently, she pressed her ear against the door. The voices were slightly muffled, but still audible. 

“Cancer.” That sounded like Vin. “The Coven are trying, but the old girl’s ninety-eight. There’s not much to be done.”

“How long?” And that, Giles. 

“Months. Probably less.”

“She wants to see you, Rupert.”

“I know.” Buffy heard him sigh heavily. “I had planned to go up to Edinburgh at the end of the month, but something’s come up, I...”

Edinburgh? Buffy frowned. That rung a bell. A bloody big one, too. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. 

“Then come down to Westbury with us.”

“I-I have work to do.”

“You’re all she has left.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” he snapped. “Never seemed to stop her blaming me, however.”

“Rupert,” said Vin, sharply. 

“Well, it’s the truth.” He sounded angry. “You know it as well as I do.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Sophie, now. “Stop being such a martyr. It doesn’t suit you, Rupert. Never has, never will.”

“I… I…”

“Georgina would want you to go.”

Georgina? The woman in the photograph? Buffy blinked, her mind racing. She pressed closer to the door, eager to learn more of the mysterious woman. 

There was a pause. 

“How dare you.” 

The words were quiet, so much so that Buffy almost missed them.

“Rupert…” 

“No.” Louder now. “How dare you use the memory of her in this way. This is emotional blackmail.”

“She was her daughter, Rupert,” snapped Vin, voice rising. 

“Yes, but she was m–”

His what? Buffy shifted, desperate to catch the answer to her question. The floorboard creaked loudly beneath her, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

“Shit,” she cursed under her breath. 

She stilled, her heart pounding. The room beyond was silent. There was no chance she hadn’t been heard. Grimacing, she turned and fled towards the kitchen, praying to whatever god was listening that Giles wouldn’t be angry with her upon her return.

***

If Giles had indeed heard her eavesdropping, he made no mention of it. Once Vin and Sophie had departed for Devon, he had informed her that they would be heading back to the city as soon as she was ready. He had work to finish, though Buffy didn’t believe a word of it, seeing through his rather flimsy excuse almost immediately. She wanted to press him for information, but given he had been generous enough to ignore her earlier snooping, she didn’t want to push her luck. He could keep his secrets. For now, at least.

They arrived in London just past 4pm.

“I’ve scheduled the pair of us in for patrol Tuesday evening,” he said, as he pulled up beside the curb in front of her flat. “We’ve had information from one of the TFL’s maintenance units about something nasty lurking down on the Northern Line not too far from here.”

Buff nodded. “Tube demon. Sounds like fun.”

“And don’t forget, Dawn’s arriving Wednesday. Her train gets in at eight.”

“Noted and remembered.”

“Good.” He gave her a soft smile. “See you tomorrow.”

***

Dawn arrived at Buffy’s flat an hour earlier than expected, suitcase in one hand and overpriced coffee in the other. The scheduled maintenance works on the line between Oxford and Paddington had been cancelled last minute, cutting her anticipated journey time in half. She hadn’t bothered ringing; where else would Buffy be at 7am on a Wednesday, other than in bed?

She was to stay with Buffy for the next two weeks, camping out in the spare room of her Camden flat. University out for the summer, Dawn had taken up a volunteer position at the Council, working in the vast underground archives where the more dangerous documents were kept. Located in one of the many ‘lost’ stations of the London Underground, unlike the Council’s previous headquarters, the archives had survived the bombing five years previously. Many of the staff that had worked in the archives, however, had not. It had left the remaining members of the department woefully overworked and desperate for any and all help offered. 

“You’re early,” said Buffy as she opened the door, pulling on a jumper over her pyjamas. She squinted at her sister in the early morning sunlight, annoyed.

Luckily for Dawn, Buffy had woken up early that morning. Unluckily for Buffy, however, when she had, she had not been alone. 

“Yup,” Dawn replied with a friendly nod. “You going to let me in, then?”

Buffy stood back, holding the door open to let her inside. As Dawn stepped into the hallway, Buffy took the suitcase from her hand and gestured towards the stairs. They walked the three floors up to her flat in silence, Buffy glaring at the back of her sister’s head. 

“You could have rung,” groused Buffy, dropping Dawn’s suitcase in the living room with a thunk just about loud enough to be heard over the hum of the shower in the en-suite. 

“Where else were you going to be? Besides, it’s not like I’m super early. You have to go to work in, like, an hour anyway.” She paused, listening. “Oh, I get it. That’s why you’re crabby. There’s someone else here.” She turned to face her sister, knowing grin on her face. “Have I interrupted something?”

She had, but Buffy was not about to admit it.

“It’s just Giles,” she said. At Dawn’s questioning look, she elaborated. “Sticky demon. Sort of went kablooey. Long story.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. And it was, in a roundabout sort of way, the reason he was here. There had been a demon lurking down in Camden Town station, and it had gone ‘pop’ upon judicious menacing with the pointy end of a sword, covering the pair of them in stringy blue goo that smelt oddly of lemons. Given that they had been all of four doors down from her flat at the time, Giles had decided that the best course of action was to decamp back to hers. The fact that he had proceeded to stay the night had been a welcome bonus. 

“Oh.” Dawn’s grin fell. “Well that’s boring.”

“That’s me. Boring old Buffy,” she said, settling down upon the sofa.

She cast a wary glance over at the closed door to her bedroom, hoping Dawn would not question why Giles was busy in the en-suite rather than the main bathroom. Or why his clothes were in her room rather than the guest room, which looked curiously neat and tidy for somewhere he had supposedly spent the night. Perhaps she’d simply chalk the latter up to Giles’ fastidiousness. Buffy could only hope. 

“What’s that?” asked Dawn, as Buffy bent over to retrieve the coffee mug upon the table, its contents now disappointingly lukewarm. 

“What’s what?” 

“The necklace?” said Dawn with a nod in her direction. “Is it new?”

Shit. The lock. She was still wearing it. Dawn’s earlier than expected arrival had thrown them both for a loop. Under the impression that they had the best part of an hour to themselves, they had proceeded to make the most of it, Buffy finding herself parcelled into the shower, Giles massaging jasmine-scented soap into her overly sensitised skin. In their haste to make both themselves and their surroundings decent, the lock had been forgotten. 

“Oh, er, yeah,” she said, hastily tucking it beneath the collar of her jumper before Dawn got a better look. 

“It’s cute.” 

“What’s cute?”

Buffy turned to watch as Giles emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed, hands deep in his trouser pockets. She felt a flutter in her stomach as he strode past, hair stuck out at all angles in damp tufts, face bare. 

“Buffy’s necklace,” clarified Dawn.

To his credit, his expression did not falter. 

“Oh.” He took a seat in the armchair opposite, reaching for his glasses, which sat upon the occasional table beside it. “If you say so, Dawn. I know nothing about that sort of thing,” he said, feigning ignorance before swiftly changing the subject. “Would you like a lift in this morning? I’m afraid there’s rather a lot of paperwork and whatnot for you to sign before I’m allowed to let you loose down in the archives.” 

“That’d be great, thanks.”

“Excellent. And you can tell me all about your studies in the process,” he said, before glancing up at Buffy. “Fifteen minutes? Or do you need a little longer?”

Buffy nodded, rising from her place upon the sofa. 

“What about breakfast?” said Dawn. 

Giles smiled. “Fear not, I’m certain Buffy has something suitable lurking in the cupboards.”

“I think you overestimate her culinary talents.”

“Hey!”

***

The rest of the week passed uncomfortably quickly. Before she knew it, Saturday had arrived, and with it the Phoenix Ball. Buffy smoothed down the front of her dress, a pretty little number in red silk, as she emerged from the taxi, Dawn in tow. Fishing a tenner from the depths of her purse, she paid the driver and began to make her way towards the Council buildings.

“We’re going to be late.”

“It’s a party, Dawn. You’re supposed to arrive late,” she said, striding up the stone steps towards the door. 

“Yeah, but there’s fashionably late and just, like, late. We are going to be _late_ late.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “It’s not like anyone it going to notice. Or care.”

“But what if we’ve missed something important?” Dawn replied, following Buffy through the open door and into the foyer beyond. 

In the distance, Buffy could hear the murmur of hundreds of voices and the threads of what sounded like something vaguely classical. Dvořák, maybe? Whilst not exactly an aficionado, Buffy had found she had subsumed bits of knowledge here and there, Giles tending to favour Radio 3 and Classic FM whilst driving, despite the case she made for Radio 1. 

“Trust me, the only thing we’ll have missed are a bunch of boring speeches.”

“Oh, how would you know? Giles says you never go to these things anyway.”

“I just do, Dawn,” she replied, pushing through the gilt-edged doors that stood between the staircases and into the large, busy room beyond. 

Unlike in previous years, where they had descended en masse upon a small country house-cum-hotel out in Surrey, this year the Council had decided to hold the Ball in-house. Though the upper floors of the Council’s Whitehall buildings had been converted into spacious offices and meeting rooms, the ground floor had been kept in its original state. Large, high-ceilinged rooms spanned the breadth of both the left and the right wings, meeting in the middle in what Buffy thought might have once been intended as some sort of hall. Now mostly used as training rooms for the slayers, they had been cleared of their equipment and furnished with drunken mingling in mind. Around the edges of the room sat a multitude of bronze-legged chairs and tables covered with startlingly white tablecloths; along one wall a bar had been set up, immaculately dressed bartenders mixing complicated cocktails with flair; and in the far corner, beneath a rather impressive floral arch, stood a string quartet. Light poured down from the great chandelier that hung in the centre of the room, illuminating the throng of people who milled about below, drinks in hand. 

“Wow,” breathed Dawn. 

A white-gloved waiter waltzed past the pair, tray of champagne flutes in hand. Dawn plucked two from the edge as he went, passing one to Buffy with a grin. 

“What do you want to do first?” she said, taking a sip. 

“Leave?” suggested Buffy. 

Dawn glared at her. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” She grabbed Buffy’s hand and pulled her into the crowd. “Come on,” she said, glancing back. “Let’s go find some fun.”

Fun, at least according to Dawn’s definition, apparently consisted of finding some of the younger Slayers and playing drinking games. Not that Buffy was necessarily averse to that sort of behaviour. She had been known back in Sunnydale to down a drink or two. Or three. The issue was more with Dawn’s choice of drinking buddies. Though nice girls, Buffy was in a position of authority over them. On a technical level, she supposed, she was actually their boss. And who wanted to play drinking games with their boss? 

Three rounds in she excused herself from the table, making her way over to the bar where she proceeded to order something sickeningly sweet and pink. About to return to the increasingly rowdy table of sloshed Slayers, she felt a hand upon her arm.

“Hello.”

Buffy turned. It was Giles. 

“Hey.”

She felt her heart skip in her chest as she saw him. He was dressed in a tux, the cut of it accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the slim lines of his hips. Black suited him, she thought as he peered down at her through his spectacles, a small smile on his face. 

“I-I didn’t think you were going to come,” he said, almost shyly. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks. You too.”

If the light were a little better, she could have sworn he was blushing. As it was, she could see only the barest hint of pink colour his cheeks; something easily accounted for by the half empty champagne flute he held. 

“Are you having a nice time?”

“Honestly? Not really,” she replied, hyperaware that his hand was still upon her arm, his fingers warm and strong against her bare skin.

“Hmm, yes, the unbearable torment of free wine and dancing. Life can be so very cruel,” he said teasingly. “Where’s Dawn got to?”

Buffy gestured over at the table behind him. He turned, following the direction of finger. She felt his hand tense briefly around her arm, and when he looked back at her, something in his face had changed. Gone was the smile, replaced by the beginnings of a frown. Puzzled, she peered over his shoulder at the table beyond, watching the Slayers and Dawn, who now appeared to be playing something complicated with a penny and a plastic cup. Behind them she could see the outline of a man stood half in shadow, his back to her. He looked oddly familiar, but was too far away for her to recognise quite who it was. Probably James Beckwith, knowing her luck. 

“Giles?”

He opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted. 

“Rupert, old chap!”

Buffy turned, face falling as she watched Robson approaching. She felt Giles’ hand slip from its place on her arm as he took a small step back, putting a respectable amount of distance between them once more. 

“Bill,” replied Giles, with a nod of greeting. 

“And the delightful Ms. Summers, too,” he boomed, greeting her with a cheery wave of his hand. “You look positively radiant this evening, my dear.”

Robson was a big man with an even bigger personality. Large in terms of both height and circumference, he possessed the unique ability to fill any space he occupied by sheer force of character. Buffy was rather fond of the man, though she preferred to express that fondness at a distance, finding conversations with him a little as though she were talking to a sentient megaphone rather than a man. 

“Thanks,” she said, shifting awkwardly. “Not looking too bad, yourself.”

“Yes, I scrub up rather well, don’t I?” he replied with a grin. “Now, I’m afraid I’m about to do the unforgivable. I need old Rupert here.” He turned to face Giles, placing a large hand upon is shoulder. “We have some rather urgent business to attend to.” 

“Ah. Yes.” Giles sent an apologetic glance in Buffy’s direction before turning back to Robson. “Ten minutes? My office?”

He nodded, taking a long draught from the flute he held in his hand.

“Please excuse me, Buffy,” said Giles, giving her an oddly formal little bow before striding off into the milling crowd. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw Robson shaking his head, a strange little grin curling at the edges of his lips. 

“Odd chap,” he clarified at her puzzled expression. There was no hint of malice in his words, just an quiet sort of fondness born of years of friendship. “Ah, speaking of odd, that reminds me,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his suit pockets. “Apparently there’s a man looking for you. Says his name’s Angel, or something to that effect. Big-ish fellow, doesn’t seem to see the sun much, if you catch my meaning."

“Angel?” She blinked, confused. What the hell was Angel doing here? He didn’t work for the Council. Or even _with_ the Council. “Do you know what he wanted?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, my dear. But he’s over with your sister, if you want to go and ask him yourself.”

  


***

What Angel wanted, it turned out, was information.

Unable to properly converse amongst the revellers, Buffy had led him up to the quiet space of her office. Silently, she had booted up her computer, pulling up the files he had requested without question. She leant back in her chair as he bent over her, placing as much space between them as she could whilst he scanned through the open document for the relevant information. 

It was something about a prophecy, that much she gathered. The document was in Etruscan, which was not a language she understood, but the annotations in the margins were in plain old English. Nothing world-ending, Angel assured her as he reached for a pen, writing a combination of numbers and oddly-shaped letters upon the back of his left hand. Just something he’d stumbled across during a recent case, the newly restructured Angel Investigations having branched out beyond LA. 

Buffy looked out of the window, gazing down at the brightly-lit streets of London, the dark waters of the Thames stark against the concrete and glass and stone that rose up from either side of the bank.

“You could have rung,” she said, softly. 

He shifted beside her. “I wanted to see you.”

She felt her heart twist a little at his words. Despite the feelings she held for Giles, feelings she tried desperately (and unsuccessfully) to deny, Buffy had never truly managed to let go of the love she felt for Angel. It had been a part of her for so long, she doubted she ever would. Or whether she even wanted to. 

Love. 

It was something that defined her, shaped her. Past love, present love, familial and platonic; it was all so complicated, and yet incredibly simple. Loving Angel cast no shadow on her love for Giles, in the same way her love for Willow did not compete with that for Xander. And whilst love could change, it could never be lost. 

“How long are you in London for?”

“Two, three weeks.”

“Then back to LA?”

She felt him nod. “Yeah, Faith and I have a–”

“Faith?” she interrupted. She turned to face him, pinning him with a dark glare. “You’re working with Faith, now?”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that coursed through her at his confirmation. It was irrational, she knew; Angel wasn’t hers anymore, hadn’t been for a long time, and yet… Faith…

“Playing happy families with another Slayer?”

Angel drew back, folding his arms, expression dangerous. 

“It’s not like that,” he said, defensively. “Faith… she’s changed. I can help her.” He tilted his head. “I _want_ to help her.”

“She’s a murderer.”

“As am I,” he replied. “Unless you’ve forgotten.”

“But you’re…”

“Different? Am I?” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “Because I’m not too sure.” 

Buffy stilled, her gaze dropping to her hands. She couldn’t deny the truth of his statement. Soul or not, there was blood upon his hands; more than had ever stained Faith’s. Still, it felt like a betrayal. The knowledge of his alliance with the dark Slayer hurt her deeply; it was petty, but suddenly, she wanted to hurt him back. 

“I’m sleeping with Giles,” she said, before she could stop herself. 

“Sleeping? As in…” There was a note of surprise in his voice. 

“Horizontal hokey pokey. Sex.”

There was a pause. Buffy didn’t look up, choosing instead to continue staring resolutely at her fingers, afraid of what she might see in his expression. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. 

“Do you love him?”

“Yes. No. I…” She sighed heavily. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Well, we’re not… it’s… it’s just sex,” she finished lamely. “We fuck.” 

“And?”

“I don’t know.” 

There was another pause. Longer this time. 

“Well?” she said, when the silence became too much. 

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something. Anything.” Buffy chanced a quick glance in his direction. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, his expression blank. 

“Does it make you happy? Sleeping with him?” he said, moving towards her office door. " _Just_ fucking?”

Buffy paused. She wasn’t sure she knew the answer to that anymore.

She watched as Angel stepped out into the darkened corridor. 

“I thought so.”


	4. Chapter 4

Buffy couldn’t face returning to the party below. Not after her confrontation with Angel. Why had she told him she was sleeping with Giles? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She pressed a cool hand to her forehead, trying to ease away the headache that was threatening to manifest. Angel’s last words echoed through her thoughts, which she tried her best to ignore, unwilling to admit even the slightest grain of truth to them.

Trying to take her mind off the argument, she wandered aimlessly through the deserted corridors of the Council buildings. It was not long, however, before she found herself on the third floor, standing in front of the door to her former Watcher’s office.

“Stupid feet,” she said to herself. 

The light was on; it shone out from the crack beneath his door. Clearly, someone was home. Buffy hovered on the other side of the door, furiously debating with herself over whether or not to knock. If he were busy working she was sure he would not appreciate the interruption. But, still rattled from her conversation with Angel, she desperately wanted his company. Needed it to convince herself that she was happy with the way things were between them. 

Taking a deep breath, she knocked smartly upon the door and waited, hand flat against the wood, for a response. A minute passed. Then another. No answer came. Puzzled, she reached for the handle and slowly opened the door. 

Giles’ office was empty. 

She let the door swing open fully, stepping inside and making her way over to his desk, hunting for a clue as to where he might have gone. As usual, it was a mess of stray files and miscellaneous paperwork. Copies of documents marked [CONFIDENTIAL] littered its surface along with printed memos, meeting minutes and the odd pay stub. At the top of the nearest pile, just to the left of the Emeralite lamp that illuminated the room, was a glossy booklet with the words ‘National Museums of Kenya’ emblazoned across the top. 

Buffy peered down curiously at the document, flipping back the first page to reveal a montage of what she assumed must be the museums themselves. However, as she did so, the back of her hand knocked the mouse of Giles’ computer. The whirr of fans filled the silent air as the machine powered back up, the screen flickering on as it was summoned from sleep. 

Though she tried not to look, feeling as though it was a step too far when it came to the invasion of Giles’ privacy, she found her attention drawn to the document that flashed up on the bright screen. It was an email, dated eight days previously, the address a personal one from the British Museum. A quick scan of its contents seemed to indicate it regarded a research opportunity somewhere called Gede. It appeared to be part of a chain going back several months, the first, sent by Giles, written back in April. 

Buffy frowned. Why was Giles receiving emails from the British Museum? And why emails regarding research? Giles was no academic. And, though she knew he had worked for the British Museum before he had become her Watcher, she had been under the impression that, after the trouble with Acathla, those bridges had been very much burnt. 

Poised to click through the thread of emails that would surely give her answers, she heard the merry ping of the lift from the corridor beyond. Giles. She did not want to be caught snooping. 

Quick as a flash, aware the door was still open wide, she nipped out from behind his desk and perched upon the corner of a low cabinet that stood almost flush to the far wall. Trying her best to look inconspicuous, she ran a hand along the bookcase that rose up in front of her, pretending to scan the spines of his esoteric collection. There was a clatter as she knocked her bag, a sparkly golden clutch, down the narrow gap behind the cabinet. 

“Shit.”

“Buffy?” 

Swallowing roughly, she turned to face the office’s owner, schooling her expression into one of pleasant greeting. He was stood in the doorway, an empty tumbler in one hand and a bottle of something no doubt horribly expensive (and horribly high-proof) in the other. At some point between now and the party, he had lost his jacket, standing before her in shirtsleeves and trousers, boxcloth braces on show, bow tie hanging loose about his neck. 

Buffy felt her breath catch at the sight of him. He looked stunning; a picture of sophisticated debauchery, his hair in disarray, his shirt open to the chest, revealing pale skin and the shadow of greying hair. She bit her lip, the sudden rush of want that coursed through her making her almost dizzy. 

Buffy stared as he entered the room, hooking an elbow behind the open door and pushing it shut with the flat of his foot. Her mouth went dry as she watched the play of muscles beneath his shirt, the pristine white fabric stretched taught across his broad shoulders as he moved on only slightly unsteady feet, gathering a second glass from the silver tray upon the sideboard as he passed. 

She swallowed roughly. “Hey.”

“Why aren’t you downstairs enjoying yourself?” he said, regarding her with a puzzled expression.

“It’s all a bit dull, really,” she replied, hands knotting together nervously in her lap as she spoke. 

“Not like you to turn down a party.” He set the glasses down upon the desk with a clink, careful to avoid her eye. Pulling the cork from the top of the bottle, he swiftly filled the waiting tumblers. “I believe Angel is here.”

“Yeah. I saw him.”

“And yet you deprive him of the pleasure of your company,” he said, passing a glass to her, a finger’s worth of whiskey in the bottom. “I’m almost certain he came here to see you.”

“And I’ve seen him,” she said tartly, not wishing to elaborate on the argument that still played on a loop through her mind.

She reached out to take the proffered drink, her thumb brushing against his as she did so. A brief flash of heat ripped through her as their skin touched, and she found herself leaning closer, unconsciously trying to prolong the contact. It felt like her stomach was filled with butterflies and she was almost certain she was blushing. Hopefully the light was dim enough that he wouldn’t notice. 

Not, in the end, that it mattered; he barely glanced in her direction. Her heart sank as Giles snatched his hand away. He took a step back, leaning against the desk, offending appendage shoved deep in his trouser pocket. 

“Oh?”

His expression was one of polite indifference. It would have been convincing had he been able to meet her eye. Instead, he stared resolutely down at his feet. 

“Yes,” Buffy continued, swirling the amber liquid around the glass with a deft flick of her wrist before taking a sip. She fought not to grimace as it burned its way down her throat. Whilst infinitely more pleasant than the cheap scotch Spike had often offered her, it still wasn’t a spirit she particularly cared for. But a drink was a drink, and she needed all the courage she could get, Dutch or otherwise. “We had a very pleasant conversation about Faith. Did you know they’re working together now?”

“I was unaware.”

“Yeah, well, they are.”

“I see.”

Buffy frowned. She took another sip of her drink, eyeing him warily. Something was wrong. Quite what, she wasn’t sure, though she had her suspicions; suspicions that involved Robson and their secret meeting, or now she thought about it, perhaps Angel. Looking back, his mood had soured not with the appearance of Robson, but upon spotting Angel hidden in the shadows. 

Were he any other man, she would have chalked his behaviour up to jealousy. After all, it made sense. The questions, his mood swings, the way he looked at her when he didn’t think she was watching; it all pointed to a man barely in control of his own emotions. But this was Giles, and if there was one thing he excelled in, it in was having an almost complete stranglehold over his feelings. Well, ninety-nine per cent of the time.

Okay, ninety-eight. 

Maybe it wasn’t jealousy. Maybe she was simply projecting, so desperate to believe he held something more than feelings of mere friendship for her that she was seeing things that simply weren’t there. The thought made her heart hurt. She fought the urge to rub her chest, ease the ache that had taken up residence beneath her breast. 

“You really ought to go back downstairs,” he said quietly, draining the whiskey from his glass in a single, fluid motion and pouring himself another, this time the measure a little more generous than the last. “You’ll no doubt be missed.”

“Are you going to join me?”

He shook his head. “I have work to do.”

It was a lie, and a bad one at that. 

“No. You don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be drinking,” she said, gesturing towards the bottle. Her frown deepened. “Giles, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Another lie. She bristled at the sheer nerve of him. Lying to her face, treating her as though she were an idiot. She wasn’t. Not by a long shot. 

“Is this about Angel?” she said sharply, eyes narrowing. 

“No.”

“Because nothing happened. Angel and I… we’re… we’re not…” She trailed off, unsure why she felt the need to explain. He wasn’t her boyfriend, or even her lover. She didn’t need to justify her love life, or in this case, lack of it to him. And yet... “Nothing happened.” 

Giles sighed. “Even if something had, what cause have I to complain?”

“I know, I know. We’re not lovers,” she said darkly, setting aside her empty glass with a clink. 

“No,” he replied, with a small huff of bitter amusement. “We’re not.”

“Then what’s your problem?” She folded her arms, giving him a hard stare. “And don’t lie to me.”

He did not reply. An uncomfortable silence descended between them. In the distance, Buffy could hear sounds of the party still in full swing several floors below. She sighed heavily, fiddling with the ring on her left index finger. 

“I saw a thing on your desk about museums in Kenya,” she said when the silence became unbearable. “Wasn’t snooping. Just kinda saw it there,” she hastily clarified. “You thinking about going on vacation?”

Giles gave a noncommittal grunt. 

“Xander says the beaches there are beautiful,” she continued, undeterred. “Not that I can imagine you sunbathing much. I mean you’re not exactly a man who cares about getting your tan on. You’re more of an indoors kinda guy. Unnatural light preferred. So, you know, museums, totally your bag.” She looked down at her empty hands, pretending to inspect her nails, horribly aware she was babbling. “Not that I’m knocking your choice of entertainment. You do you.”

Again, he made a vague sort of noise, acknowledging her attempt at conversation but not forming any sort of useful contribution.

“Feel free to join in at any point,” she said. “Conversations work better when they’re a two-way thing.”

Silence. 

“You know what? I’m too tired for this.” Buffy sighed deeply. “I’m heading home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

There were some battles that simply weren’t worth winning. Rolling her eyes, she reached for her handbag, which had fallen down the gap between the back of the cabinet and the wall. It took a little effort to fish it out from its resting place, sprawled as she was over the countertop, but eventually she managed to hook a finger through the wrist loop attached to the bottom corner. With a surprising lack of grace, something she could only blame on the booze, she pulled it up from the gap and turned to find Giles stood before her. 

“Wait.” 

He reached out to grab her hand, but clearly thought the better of it before he could complete the motion. Instead, he removed his glasses and began polish the lenses with the cloth he kept in his left hand pocket. 

“What?” she said, sitting back down with a thump. 

“I-I’m thinking about taking a sabbatical,” he replied, settling next to her, replacing his glasses with a sigh. 

She blinked in surprise. It wasn’t the admission she had been expecting. 

“A saba-what?” 

“A sabbatical. In Kenya,” he said. “Gede to be specific. It’s an archaeological site near the coast, thought to be one of the most important settlements of its type. A former colleague of mine at the British Museum put me in touch with a chap over at the dig site as part of a collaboration with the Museums of Kenya, who administrate the site.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s really quite a fascinating place. It also happens to be located less than fifty miles from the site of a former Hellmouth. And, well, it just seemed like too good an opportunity to miss. The wealth of information we could find there, why it could cha…”

She cut him off with a wave. “For how long?”

“Three, four months, perhaps,” he said, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “I don’t know.”

“What about the Council?”

“Robson has provisionally agreed to act as Head in my absence.”

“Why?”

“He is one of the more senior members of the Council, Buffy. Though if you find him that objectionable, I suppose I could have a word with Sirk.” 

“That’s not what I meant, Giles, and you know it.”

She heard him sigh heavily. 

“It’s a fascinating opportunity,” he said somewhat lamely. 

“And I suppose it just dropped in your lap, right?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

There was a pause. 

“When are you leaving?” she said, bracing herself for bad news. It was going to be soon. She could feel it.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to take the position yet,” he replied carefully. 

“It sounds to me like you’ve already decided,” she muttered. 

“Buffy?” 

He hooked a finger under her jaw, gently lifting her head until her gaze met his own. 

“When were you going to tell me?” she said quietly. 

“I’m telling you now,” he replied, moving to stand before her, his expression pleading, willing her to understand, to forgive him.

“What if I tell you I don’t want you to go?”

“It isn’t forever. I’d be back before Christmas.”

His hand cupped her face, thumb smoothing over the hollow of her cheek as he drew closer. She could feel the silky fabric of his trousers brush against her bare legs, see the hint of stubble that decorated his jaw. 

“I don’t want you to go,” she said, her plea barely more than a whisper. “Don’t go. Please. I need you.”

He was so close she could feel each quiet exhale against her lips, his breath hot and sweet with whiskey. His eyes bored into her own, his irises little more than thin rings of green around wide, black pupils. 

“I’m afraid I have to,” he murmured. “I-I can’t trust myself around you anymore.”

The world stilled. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, her chest tight, her stomach in knots. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me? How difficult it is to stop myself from touching you every time you are near me, collar or not?” he continued, his voice tight, pained. “I think about you constantly. Day. Night. I _dream_ about you. And when I wake up alone, my heart hurts with it.” 

“God, Giles.”

“Do you know what it’s like to feel that way about something you cannot allow yourself to have?”

“Yes,” she whispered, drawing closer still, her heart pounding. 

“It’s torture.”

And with that, he closed the gap between them, capturing her lips with his own. 

He’d never kissed her before. Not once in well over a year of fantasies and fucking. Not until now. Buffy felt as though she were drowning, losing herself in the feel of him against her lips. The kiss was soft and warm and… over. 

Blinking, she watched as he pulled back, his gaze averted. 

“Buffy, forgive me, I-I…” he tailed off, a look of shame upon his face. His hand dropped from her face as he took a step back, putting an appropriate amount of distance between them once more. 

No, no. This was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

Heart pounding a tattoo against the bones of her chest, she pushed herself up from her seat upon the cabinet, stepping determinedly into his personal space. She reached out, filled with the overwhelming need to touch him, feel his skin against hers. Trembling, her fingertips ghosted over the line of his jaw. His eyes snapped to hers at the touch and her breath caught in her chest. 

“Giles –” she began, but whatever she had intended to say was lost to a whimper as reached out and drew her to him, a broad hand curling behind her neck.

He kissed her again.

Where his first kiss had been light, almost chaste, his second was fierce and demanding. A wave of prickling heat rolled over her as she felt the tip of his tongue flicker against the seam of her lips, making her gasp. Then his tongue was tangling with her own, possessing her mouth as he had done her body. 

It was hot, messy, her lips slick with smudged gloss, finesse sacrificed in her haste to taste him. She moaned, the sound becoming strangled as Giles bit her lower lip, soothing the hurt with his tongue. 

Buffy felt his hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer still until her body was completely flush with his own. She could feel the heat that radiated off him in waves, bringing with it the scent of the aftershave he wore, smoky and deep, cut with an undercurrent of whiskey and fresh sweat. She could feel the hard length of him pressed against the soft curve of her belly, too. Sparks of pleasure shot through her, making her skin tingle, desire coiling tightly between her thighs. 

Moans swallowed as he continued to ravage her mouth, she ran her hands over the curve of his arse, delighting in the helpless little sounds that escaped him as she did so. She had never touched him like this before. It was exhilarating, exploring every forbidden inch, her hands mapping the contours of his body. Even the morning she had spent in his bed, her lips around his aching cock, she had barely touched him. A stroke here, caress there. Her focus had been entirely upon the thick length of him; the way that it had felt against her palm, the way it tasted as she had brought him ever closer to climax. In her eagerness, she had neglected the rest of him.

It was a mistake she rectified now. Pulling him tight against her, she swept her hands up his back and down his sides to his hips, cataloguing the interplay of bone and hard muscle with the softer edges where he had begun to lose tone. Perfectly imperfect. With a hum of pleasure, she gripped his hips, fingers digging into his cloth-covered flesh, grinding herself against him hard. 

Panting, Giles broke the kiss, pulling back a fraction to meet her gaze. His cheeks were flushed, his lips kiss-swollen and slick, his eyes wild and dark behind his spectacles. Buffy felt her heart clench at the sight of him, at the knowledge that it was all because of her. 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, a desperate edge to his voice. “Please.” 

“Never.”

Buffy felt her back slam into the bookcase as he pushed up against her, hands braced either side of her head. Her breath hitched as he bent his head, his lips capturing hers once more. His mouth was hot and hard, the kiss nearly bruising in its intensity. Her lips felt tender, almost sore, but she didn’t want him to stop. She’d waited for this for so long, fantasised about this very moment for well over a year. She didn’t want to sacrifice a second. 

Bringing a leg up to hook behind his, she felt him shift above her. A broad hand ghosted its way up her raised thigh, bringing the hem of her dress up with it, exposing her intimately. She moaned loudly against his lips as she felt his fingers smooth over the jut of her hip. They were trembling. 

With little ceremony, he hooked a finger beneath the lace of her knickers, pulling them aside, exposing her feverish skin to the cool air. She felt the back of his hand brush against her bared sex, the sound of rustling fabric filling the air as he freed himself with shaking fingers. A small whimper bubbled up from her throat as the thick head of him pressed against her opening, the silken skin fever hot. 

Bracing herself against the shelves, Buffy wrapped her legs around him. She cried out as he thrust into her, sheathing himself in one hard, deep stroke. Shocks of pure pleasure shot through her as her internal muscles stretched to accommodate him, sparks dancing behind her closed eyes. It felt like nothing she’d experienced before. Perhaps it was the position, the angle bringing her throbbing clit into teasing contact with the base of him; or maybe it was the frantic undercurrent to his touch, as though he feared, should he slow, she would slip away, leaving him alone and shaking with need. Buffy felt as though she were on fire. As though she would burn from the inside out. Burn until there was nothing left but cinders. 

He set a punishing rhythm, quick and hard, his hands gripping the underside of her thighs as he fucked her. Her fingers clawed at his back, leaving creases in the expensive white cotton of his dress-shirt. Desperate to feel his skin beneath her fingertips, she gave the fabric a sharp tug, pulling it from the slack waistband of his undone trousers. 

A strangled groan emanated from him as her hands slipped beneath his shirt, clawing at the soft flesh she found there. She dragged her nails across his skin hard enough to draw blood, but she didn’t care, too far-gone in her pleasure to reign in her strength. 

His thrusts became deeper, the head of his cock hitting her cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure-tipped pain rippling through her abdomen. She was so close to orgasm that the pain only served to heighten the sensations that coursed through her, the tension in her muscles building until she felt as though she were frozen in place, unable to move, only feel. Her head lolled back, her mouth slipping from his with a gasp.

“Giles,” she hissed, her cunt twitching around him as she fought not to come.

His grip tightened at the sound of his name, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her buttocks, a low groan rumbling from the depths of his chest as his hips jerked helplessly, breaking his rhythm. 

“God, Buffy,” he said, his breath hot against her neck. “You feel… feel so…”

Her skin was slick with sweat. She could feel it running down the hollow of her spine, between the valley of her breasts, along the cords of her neck. She watched as Giles bent his head and felt him run the flat of his tongue along her carotid, stopping to nip at the edge of her jaw. 

“This… is this what you think about… when you think about me?”

“Yes,” he whispered. 

“Like this? No collar? No games?”

“Buffy.” Her name was more of a groan than a word. 

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

She felt her breath catch at his admission. This time there was no mistaking the way he felt. He wanted _her_. Not Buffy the submissive, but Buffy the Slayer. And she was so ready to give him everything. Her body. Her mind. 

Her heart. 

The world shattering around her as her orgasm hit, she felt the words slip from her before she could stop them. 

“I love you.”

With an agonised moan, Giles came, his uneven thrusts almost brutal in their force. He was repeating her name like a litany, whispering it into the fever-hot skin of her neck over and over as though it were the only word he knew. He bit down upon her shoulder hard, triggering another wave of pleasure deep within her as a second orgasm rode in on the tails of the first. Blood roared in her ears, drowning out the breathy little groans Giles couldn’t help but make as her cunt contracted around him. She felt like she was floating, utterly exhausted. Her head dropped heavily to his shoulder as she lowered her legs, grimacing as she felt him slip wetly from her. 

“I love you,” she repeated, whispering it into the damp fabric of his shirt. 

And she did. Had done for the best part of a year, no matter how often she tried to deny it to herself. She felt so full of love for him she thought she might burst. Saying it felt like a relief.

She felt him draw in a sharp breath. He stilled. 

“Buffy, I…” 

He was going to say it. He was going to tell her he loved her. Buffy felt her heart skip a beat. She closed her eyes, waiting. 

“I… I can’t do this.”

Her eyes snapped open. Surely she had misheard him? Blinking, she pushed herself upright, sliding from her position against the bookcase to stand upon two shaky feet. 

“Giles?” she said, watching as he took a step back. Then another. 

He was as white as a sheet. 

“I-I can’t do this,” he repeated, tucking himself back into his trousers, his eyes wild. “I’m sorry.”

And then he fled, leaving Buffy alone in his office, her heart in pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fifth and final part of Sanctuary, Phoenix, coming soon.


End file.
